by Will Self
They were making those noises, those noises that almost meant something. Snufflings and gruntings, that seemed to include comprehensible bits of “speech”. Now, after some days of listening to them with ears steadily less fugged up – Bowen had been reducing his dosage of Valium – he heard the snuffle-grunts as: “Hooobecareful ‘Grnn”, or “HoooIdon’twanttoscareyou ‘Grnn”. Could this be so? He laboured to decipher the sounds, his muzzle crammed in the corner, hoping that coarse-haired fingers wouldn’t yank him around, hispid hands wouldn’t administer blows or needles.
They had gone. Simon turned to see a telephone on his cardboard table. Well, almost a telephone; as he drew closer to examine the thing he found that tacked to the side of the conventional, bog-ordinary device – white keyboard, flimsy, plastic receiver – there was a small screen. It was obviously meant to be part of the thing, and yet at one and the same time it wasn’t right, wasn’t right at all. But before he had time to consider this strangeness – it rang.
It rang the way telephones always ring, prosaically and yet with full import. The “trrring-tring-trrring-tring-trrring” signalled to Simon: ‘This is the world pant-hooting, the workaday world of plumbers and quickly fitted exhaust systems’ as it always had. He squatted, dully contemplating the mechanism, and savouring the possibility that if he were to snatch up the receiver quickly enough a clerk in a bookshop would show him something he had ordered had come in, or a dental secretary would inpart he was due for a check-up.
The sound of the ringing reverberated in the confined space, creating a split-second echo, a distortion in sonic registration that Simon connected with his own sense of dislocation from his body, of the mismatch between psychic and physical. He was, he realised for the first time, wearing an indecently short green hospital gown, made from thick cotton fabric, and nothing else. Simon stared at his feet, concentrating on the familiar pattern of scratches and nicks on his toenails, the knobble on the knuckle of his big toe. His feet seemed far away, as if observed through the wrong end of a telescope.
“Trrring-tring-trrring-tring-” The telephone with the screen tacked on to it went on ringing. The flex coiled away from the instrument, ran across the lino and disappeared beneath the door. The flex reminded Simon of the hideous umbilicus in his dream. He couldn’t help suspecting that it had only recently been yanked, justin-timely, from the womb of some far larger telephone. “Trrring-tring-trrring-tring –” Without quite knowing how he had got thus, squatting, feet either side of it, sensing the volar vibration, Simon found himself lifting the receiver and placing its inveterate prong against his naturally cauliflowered ear.
The little screen fizzed in time with the click and splutter of connection. White dots joined themselves into a pattern of light and dark. The muzzle of a rather old, rather fat chimpanzee appeared. The beast was drinking a cup of tea held in one hand, while the other clutched a similar prong to a generous ear. Simon collapsed in an involuntary bout of hysterical laughter, falling back on to the cushion of his scut. The image was so ludicrous, so Disney. It was like a novelty photograph, a crude bit of anthropomorphism, rendered cruder by the expression of bafflement on the animal’s muzzle. Simon, through distorting lenses of salty water, saw it put down its tea cup, cradle the receiver between its shoulder and its ear, and gesture to someone off-screen.
‘Well, he’s picked it up,’ Busner signed to Bowen.
‘That’s a start then –’
‘Yes, a start. He appears to be laughing at me.’
‘Sounds fairly positive. I haven’t got so much as a tooth-clack out of him.’
‘D’you think there’s some athetosis? Has he dropped the ‘phone “huu”?’
‘Could be athetosis of some kind. We’ve certainly noticed inappropriate hand movements. ’ Bowen was squatted alongside Busner in the nurses’ station. Dobbs stood behind them, picking his nails with a multi-bladed penknife. Busner had sent the sub-adult males off to range the hospital, and Gambol was with Whatley photocopying Dykes’s notes.
‘ “H’hooo” here he is again, he’s back in range of the camera. Simon, can you see and hear me “huu”?’
Simon could see and hear him, and if he had known what it meant he would have diagnosed the elderly chimpanzee with athetosis. For, as far as Simon was concerned that’s what he saw, the animal – now with the receiver tucked between cartilaginous ear and unshorn shoulder – wiggling the fingers of his two free hands, as if going coochy-coo to the air.
Yet the finger-wiggling was doubly strange to Simon, because as with the noises his keepers made he could – without quite understanding why or how – recognise within the movements the chimp’s thick digits made, the presence of comprehensible signs. And without quite knowing that he did so, Simon squatted over the videophone – which is, of course, what it was – and cradling the receiver as his interjector was, wiggled a reply: ‘Beasty-beast,’ he signed, ‘wiggly-waggly, beasty-beast,’ he continued, ‘pooh-pooh, ca-ca beast …’ Interspersed with this baby talk came muted, distorted vocalisations, of the form: “Geddaway” and “Fuuuckoooff”.
Busner paid great attention to these utterances and fumblings. Out of sight of the ‘phone’s camera, he gestured to Bowen, ‘Has he shown any evidence of coprolalia before this “huu”?’
‘ “Huuu”,’ she recalled, ‘not that I’m aware of.’
‘Well, he’s certainly coprolalic now!’ Busner kept his eyes on the screen, where Simon was now signing, ‘Pee-pee beastie pee. Pee-pee beastie pee …’
‘If he’s “grnnn” coprolalic it will make things a damn sight simpler –’
‘I want to “hee-hee” pooh on your heady-head, “h’hee-hee” pooh-pooh on your heady –’
‘After all catatonia – as Ferencenzi remarked – is the opposite of tics; and he has been catatonic has he “huuu” not? –’
‘ “Fuuuckoooff” pooh-pooh in your bum-bum, pooh-pooh on your heady –’
‘He’s a bit on the old side for a flamboyant onset of Tourette’s, isn’t he, Zack? And none of his other symptoms are exactly consistent with such a diagnosis.’
‘Well ye-es, strictly signing – Now, Simon “Hooo-Graaa”!’ Busner broke in forcefully. ‘Pay some attention here – this is important.’
Simon spasmed into attention. This noise in his ear he understood. It meant ‘Pay attention’, just as surely as the shapes of the letters that spell ‘pay attention’ would have meant the same. He stopped mouthing and wiggling. He scrutinised the brute countenance on the absurd little screen, the zoic figure that had just signed to him. Signed to me? What does that mean, signed to me? Signed to me? Surely I should have signed something else, not ‘signed’, but something which means –
‘Simon, can you visualise what I’m signing “huu”?’
‘I – I can “hoo”. ’ Could he? How did he know that he could? Who-he? “Hee-hee!”
‘Is something funny, Simon?’
‘You’re bloody funny – you’re a chimpanzee “hee-hee”!’
‘So are you.’
‘No, I’m human. Oh “Hoo-waaa”! This is ridiculous! I’ve been over all this with the other fucking monkeys, the “hooo” beasts that come in here. “Hoo” Christ! You don’t, you don’ –’
‘Know what it’s like “h’huuu”? You’re “chup-chupp” right, Simon,’ Busner’s signing was fantastically well styled at this point. Bowen looked on in admiration, the old chimp still had the ‘fluence, the ability to reach even the most severely disturbed patients. ‘And I don’t want to gesticulate about that now anyway. Let’s just accept that the fact that I appear to be like a chimpanzee is part of the problem, shall we “huu”? And then “huh-huh” see where we can “chup-chupp” go from there “huu”? If it disturbs you, squint at the screen, “huu” distort my features, and maybe I’ll seem a bit more human “huuu”?’
Gambol and Whatley were forming their alliance in the Café Rouge, across the road from the hospital. Whatley had suggestured they squat at one of
the tables outside on the pavement – so as not to appear, if seen, to be seeking any form of sequestration.
‘Don’t be “euch-euch” ridiculous,’ Gambol signed as they scampered across the busy road. ‘If we squat out here we’ll get more lead in our bellies than a Bosnian in a safe haven!’
‘ “Wraaaf”!’ Whatley barked, then thumped his subordinate hard on the head. ‘Cut it out, Gambol – just because we’re working on an alliance here, it doesn’t mean you can get uppity with me!’
‘S-sorry,’ Gambol finger-cringed, ‘I, of course revere your ischial pleat, Dr Whatley,’ and he presented low, but bided his time. Every lap pony has his day, he told himself for the fourth time that morning.
They ended up at the back of the joint, behind a waist-high display of fake vernality. The café was packed with chimps anyway. It was first-lunch time and secretaries and other staff from the hospital were entwined in yammer and tickle. No one paid them any mind – especially the bonobo waiter with the dreadlocked head fur.
‘Well,’ Whatley gestured when they were seated, ‘so, an alliance, a move to unseat the old chimp. Ideas of taking over his domestic group as well, have you, Gambol “huu”? Busner females in oestrus, are they “huu”? Not getting the mating you deserve “huu”?’
‘I resent that, Dr Whatley, really I do, sir –’
‘ “H’huu” so you have a more high-minded reason for turning on your alpha, do you? I must sign, you didn’t show such support for me last year at Bournemouth when Busner was trotting out his latest exhibition of mesmerism.’
‘Well, I couldn’t, could I, but – but, things are different now. I have – I have certain information about Busner that would be more than detrimental to him. I’m also fed up with the way he parades these patients around, exhibits them, makes his reputation off the back of their suffering. I don’t think I want to go to another bout of drinks parties with some poor, deluded chimp who thinks he’s hum –’
‘Let’s see some of this info, Gambol, pull it out. ’ Whatley seemed to have put his recent humiliation at the feet of Zack Busner to one side. He was all eyes now, and as imperious as his weedy manner allowed.
‘We-ell “chup-chup-chupp”, he’s got bad arthritis for a start –’
‘ “Huuu” how bad?’
‘Very. I believe he’s in a lot of pain, certainly when he has to practically enforce dominance. Obviously maintaining the domestic hierarchy takes it out of him – after all he’s plenty of sub-adult males …’
Outside the bookie’s the junior members of the Busner patrol were trying to ingratiate themselves with some older bonobos, the posse that always hung out there, beering and openly spliffing.
‘Where y’at, chimp?’ fingered one, as Erskine presented low to her, his quivering scut buffing the pavement. ‘Out on y’fuckin’ patrol an’ stuff “huu”?’
‘We are,’ signed Erskine, ‘and pretty fed up with it too.’
‘The troof, innit,’ the bonobo hand jived. ‘Well, that’s as – but this is our territory an’ that, so “wraff”! fuck off, an’ that –’
‘ “H’huuu”? We were just going to – your anal funkiness –’
‘Ya “huu”?’
‘Just going to ask if you knew anyone who had a smoke of weed to flog us … “h’huu”?’
‘I – I just don’t want them to t-touch me …’ Simon was still bent over the absurd device, squinting from the screen – which he looked at for as long as he could bear–to the flanges of yellowing, rind-like flesh, that squidged between his furry feet and the lino. ‘Please, don’t let them touch me.’
‘I won’t “chup-chupp”,’ Busner’s fingers caressed the air in front of the camera, his vocalisations were as soft as a female’s first swelling, as wholesome as a ripe grape. ‘What we’ll do is, after we’ve signed, you get a really good rest “huu”? Then, tomorrow, Dr Bowen and I will set up an environment where it’s possible to run some of these tests on you. We’re going to do it so there’s as little possibility of you catching sight of us as we can. We’ll clear the ward of chimps between your room and where we’re going to do the tests –’
‘So, who’s going to do them then “huu”?’
‘We will, but if you’d prefer we could disguise ourselves.’
Simon looked at the fuzzy image of Busner on the tiny monitor. Why was it that if he squinted too much, he couldn’t seem to understand what the chimp was signing? The vocalisations alone were insufficient to convey full meaning, they were merely accent, styling, feel. But, of course, if he looked too hard he saw the canines, the leathery muzzle, the almost prehensile lip, the green eyes, the black fur … ‘Disguise? H-how “huu”? “Hoooo”.’
‘Masks maybe “huu”?’ Busner waved, literally off the top of his head.
‘Y-yes, that might be a good idea. And – and maybe some trousers. Trousers or skirts, or something that covers your legs. I find the sight of your legs – with the fur on them – very disturbing.’
Busner made a sign to Jane Bowen. ‘What does he mean, trousers “huu”? D’you think he means a swelling-protector “huu”?’
‘I’ve no idea. Just humour him, he could go catatonic at any time, I’ve seen it.’
‘OK, Simon,’ Busner resumed, ‘we’ll get some nether garments. Now “chup-chupp”, thank you for gesticulating with me today. I want you to stop pushing yourself to think about these things any more for the moment. Get some rest, and tomorrow we’ll really begin to find out what’s wrong. “HooooGraaa”.’
Busner broke the connection and turned to Bowen. ‘Trousers! Nice touch that, trousers!’
‘D’you think it’s fetishism of some kind “huuu”?’ Her muzzle puckered up somewhere between distaste and amusement. ‘I’ll have to go into Soho to get a pair, or somewhere where there’s an Ann Summers shop … Unless, that is … ?’
‘ “Clak-clak-clak – H’hee-hee”! Well, I suppose one of my sub-adults might have a pair hidden somewhere around the house. ’ Busner was clearly amused by the image. ‘I’ll see what I can do. If I can’t find any I’ll send Gambol. I need you to set things up for the tests.’
The two chimps had slid from their seats at the Ward Sister’s tiny desk and were now curled around one another on the floor. Fingers plucked and preened at fur as they inparted. ‘I know it’s far too early, Your Eminence –’
‘Please, Jane “chup-chupp”, we’ve known each other too long for such extreme deference. Please denote me Zack.’
‘Zack, d’you have any ideas “h’huu”?’
‘I don’t know “gru-nnn”, I don’t know at all. Is it a morbidity of some kind “huu”, these questions are so hard to answer? Despite the intense and disturbing nature of his delusion, it could well be that Simon’s affliction is potentially productive. There’s obviously some kind of doubling of consciousness here, a mental diplopia, but we’ll know nothing until we have those scans. Nothing more “h’huu”?’
Bowen went on teasing some particles of what looked like Gentlemale’s Relish from Busner’s belly for some time before asking, ‘Had you considered Ganser’s, Zack?’
‘ “Chup-chupp” interesting idea. But then, his answers aren’t strictly speaking irrelevant– which is the absolute hallmark of Ganser’s, as you know – they’re more oneiric, more dream-like. It’s funny though, whatever the symptomatology of this – it is beautifully coherent. Perhaps the human delusion will turn out to be like Ganser’s or Tourette’s; and once it’s recognised for the first time, become both easily and constantly identified.
‘ “Gru-aaa” anyway, it’s past second-lunch time, and I have this bloody tedious lecture to give at UCL this afternoon. I’ll collect the lads and crawl on. D’you know where my epsilon got to?’
‘He went off with Whatley – I’ll help you find them.’
“HooooGraa!” Busner drummed against the electronic doors of the hospital, which, being broken, were jammed open with milk crates. The doors shuddered with the force of his
valediction. He turned and slowly knuckle-walked to the Volvo, where Gambol was waiting at the wheel.
‘ “H’hooo” Zack! One more thing –’ Bowen came scuttling after him. ‘Simon Dykes, you know his opening is tonight, at George Levinson’s gallery in Cork Street.’
‘No tickling “huu”?’
‘I thought I might drop by – his consort is coming to see me this afternoon, she’ll be able to get me – or us – on the list.’
‘Not a bad idea. I have tickets for Turandot, taking Charlotte, my alpha, she’s having a fairly stressful oestrus, y’know. But I’m sure she won’t mind me missing the first act …’
‘ “Wraaa”! Where the hell have you been, Gambol,’ Busner waved as the big car eased its way out from the crowded precincts of the hospital, ‘and where the hell are the rest of the patrol “h’huu”?’ Gambol chose to ignore the first part of his alpha’s query, and focus whatever opprobrium was going on Erskine, Charles and Carlo.
‘They’re over there, Boss. ’ He pointed to where the sub-adults were slouching outside the bookie’s. As their alpha watched, Erskine was footed a spliff by one of the bonobos and took a long pull on it. The Volvo squealed to a halt and Busner leant out the window.
‘ “Wraaa”! Come on, you apprentice delinquents, give these chimps back their marijuana and get in the car, we’re late.’
They did so with utmost celerity, Erskine weeping with the effort involved in surreptitiously exhaling. Then the three of them huddled on the back seat, awaiting a lecture on the psychological effects of marijuana, or the woeful prejudice of bonoboism, or the depredations of London’s public-transport system, or all three. But the Volvo motored back up the Fulham Palace Road, with signless and novocal reigning. Until, that is, they reached the Hammersmith roundabout, and Busner put the finger on Gambol once more. ‘You didn’t reply “grnnn”, what were you signing with that creep Whatley about?’
Later that afternoon Jane Bowen was back at the nursing station, together with Sarah Peasenhulme. Sarah wore her best daytime swelling-protector, a neat little thing in silk chenille by Selena Blow. The capacious gusset was cool against the rawness of her perineum. She had come straight to the hospital from home – where she sometimes did some work – and Dr Bowen had been kind enough to ‘phone her, show her about the planned ‘phone link with Simon.
